ANNIE 
TRUMBULL 
SLOSSON 


J 


White  Christopher 


WHITE 
CHRISTOPHER 


By 

Annie   Trumbull 


Slosson 


Author  of  "  Fishin'  JiHrrny," 
"Story-Tell  Lib,"  etc. 


With  Illustrations  by 

Alice  Barber  Stephens 


PHILADELPHIA 

THE   SUNDAY    SCHOOL   TIMES    CO. 
1905 


Copyright,  1901,  by 
JAMES   POTT   &  Co. 


Copyright,  1905,  by 
THE  SUNDAY  SCHOOL  TIMES  Co. 


To  Polly 


W^hite   Christopher 


first  time  I  saw 
Christopher  Bowles  — 
but  his  name  wasn't 
Christopher  then  —  he 
was  only  two  or  three 
weeks  old.  Seemed  to 
me  at  the  time,  and  it  does  now  as  I  recol 
lect  back,  that  he  looked  more  like  a  little 
white  rabbit  than  anything  else.  His  hair, 
and  there  was  a  good  deal  of  it,  was  most 
as  white  as  snow  and  his  eyelashes  and 
eyebrows  the  same,  and  his  eyes  were 
sort  of  pink,  or  you  might  say,  brownish 
with  pink  showing  through,  exactly  like 
that  rabbit's  eyes  over  at  the  Noyes's 
there,  across  the  way.  I  suppose  he  was 
what  they  call  an  albino,  though  I  never  saw 
any  other,  but  folks  said  he  was  that 

m 


White    Christopher 

kind.  I  lived  quite  a  piece  away  from 
the  Bowles  family,  Cyrus  Bowles,  I  mean. 
They  were  up  on  the  Wallace  Hill  road 
then  and  I  was  just  here  where  I  am  now 
on  the  way  to  Lisbon. 
Charlotte  Bowles  and  I  went  to  school 
together  when  she  was  Charlotte  Streeter 
and  we  grew  up  great  friends,  and  I'd 
known  Cyrus's  folks,  too,  all  my  life. 
They  were  all  Franconia  people,  both  sides, 
born  and  raised  here.  Charlotte  didn't 
know  exactly  whether  to  be  pleased  with  her 
little  white  baby's  looks  or  not,  but  she 
loved  him  hard,  from  the  minute  he  came. 
I  didn't  know  what  to  say  about  him, 
either.  He  wasn't  like  any  baby  I'd  ever 
seen  before  and  he  didn't  favor  any  of  his 
relations.  He  wasn't  what  you'd  call  pretty, 
but  he  was  cunning,  so  little  and  white, 
with  those  pinky-brown  eyes. 


White   Christopher 

The  child  lived  and  grew  and  did  well 
enough  as  far  as  his  health  went.  But  it 
wasn't  many  weeks  before  we  all  saw  that 
there  was  something  wrong  or  at  any  rate 
out  of  the  common  about  the  boy.  The 
pinky  eyes  didn't  see  very  well  and  after  a 
spell  we  found  that  though  he  appeared  to 
hear  well  enough  he  couldn't  talk,  and 
worse  than  that,  there  was  something 
wrong  about  the  mind.  We  never  called 
him,  even  to  ourselves,  an  idiot.  That 
seems  such  a  dreadful  word  and  he  was  his 
mother's  only  child  and  she  loved  him 
more  than  tongue  can  tell.  But  I  sup 
pose  perhaps  he  was  a  kind  of  one ; 
strangers  called  him  so,  I  know. 
Cyrus  and  Charlotte  didn't  name  the 
child  at  first;  they  kept  putting  it  off, 
putting  it  off,  not  exactly  knowing  what 
he  was  going  to  turn  out,  hoping  and 

m 


White    Christopher 

hoping  he'd  improve  and  be  like  other 
children.  They  called  him  "  Baby  "  for 
a  long  time,  and  when  he  got  too  big  for 
that  he  was  "  the  little  boy,"  and  after 
that  just  "  the  boy,"  and  he  went  on 
being  that,  even  to  the  folks  all  around 
there.  So  he  never  had  any  real  name, 
first  name,  of  his  own  till  he  was  more 
than  twelve  year  old. 

I  told  you  he  was  kind  of  cunning  look 
ing  when  he  was  a  baby,  though  never 
real  pretty.  But  as  he  got  older  and 
bigger  he  wasn't  nice  looking  at  all.  He 
was  dreadfully  thin  and  always  so  pale, 
not  a  bit  of  color  in  his  face  anywheres. 
His  hair  was  as  white  as  an  old  man's  and 
so  were  his  eyebrows  and  eyelashes.  His 
eyes  didn't  see  much ;  he  kept  them  half 
shut  up,  and  what  you  could  see  of  them 
had  such  a  dead,  dull  sort  of  look.  Fact 

[71 


White    Christopher 

is,  there  wasn't  much  life  of  any  kind  in 
the  poor  boy  ;  he  was  dead  and  dull  in 
side  and  out. 

He  never  went  out  much,  never  played 
or  ran  about  like  other  boys.  He  used 
to  sit  at  the  back  door,  generally  on  the 
steps,  still  and  quiet,  hour  after  hour,  day 
after  day.  Most  times  he  didn't  seem  to 
be  looking  at  anything ;  his  eyes  were 
generally  half  shut  up  and  dead  looking, 
and  he  had  such  a  miserable,  unhappy 
look  on  his  face.  Folks  were  sorry  for 
him  and  never  unkind  to  him,  but  nobody 
loved  him  much  nor  wanted  him  around, 
except  his  father  and  mother — his  mother 
most,  of  course.  Cyrus  was  fond  of  him, 
naturally,  for  he  was  his  own  child,  his 
first  one  and  his  last,  for  they  never  had 
another.  But  he  was  disappointed  and  a 
bit  ashamed  and  didn't  always  like  to  be 

rn 


White   Christopher 

reminded  of  that  by  seeing  the  boy  around. 
Men  are  that  way,  you  know,  most  of 
them,  a  little  more  than  women,  maybe. 
But  his  mother,  she  was  wrapped  up  in 
the  boy ;  sometimes  I  thought  she  set 
more  by  him  than  if  he'd  been  a  rugged, 
pretty  child  to  be  showed  off  and  proud 
of,  she  made  so  much  of  him,  and  kept 
him  always  clean  and  nicely  dressed.  She 
used  to  have  such  a  loving,  mothery 
look  on  her  face  when  she  looked  at  him, 
and  when  she  didn't  know  anyone  saw  her, 
she'd  put  her  two  arms  round  him  and 
draw  him  up  to  her  close  and  tight  and 
often  kiss  his  white,  pinched  little  face. 
He  didn't  take  much  to  being  coddled, 
though,  and  hardly  ever  showed  any  signs 
of  loving  his  mother  or  anybody  else. 
But,  by  spells,  there'd  come  a  kind  of 
half  troubled,  considering,  longing  look 


White   Christopher 

in  his  pinky-brown  eyes  when  Charlotte 
held  him  tight,  most  as  if  there  was  some 
real  love  down  in  his  dead  little  heart, 
only  he  didn't  know  how  to  bring  it  out. 
But  Charlotte  was  the  only  one  that  ap 
peared  to  notice  that  much  and  understand 
it.  He  never  cared  for  creatures  and 
they  seemed  to  know  it.  Dogs  and  cats, 
the  horses  and  cows,  even  the  cosset  lambs 
just  kept  away  from  him,  knowing  fast 
enough,  as  animals  will,  you  know,  that  he 
didn't  want  them  or  feel  any  interest  in 
them. 

Cyrus  and  Charlotte  were  good,  religious 
folks,  both  professors  from  the  time  they 
were  boy  and  girl  and  joined  the  church 
the  same  Sunday.  So  they  tried  their 
best  to  bring  the  boy  up  in  the  fear  of 
the  Lord.  But  what  could  they  do  ? 
You  couldn't  seem  to  get  an  idea  of  any 

[71 


White    Christopher 

kind  into  that  poor,  stupid  head.  He 
knew  when  he  was  hungry  or  thirsty  or 
wanted  anything  and  had  his  own  way  of 
letting  his  folks  know.  But  that  was  all. 
As  for  learning  him  about  right  and 
wrong,  minding,  showing  respect  to  his 
father  and  mother,  being  thankful  or  kind 
or  merciful,  why  it  appeared  as  if  you 
couldn't  do  it.  And  so,  of  course,  to  put 
anything  into  his  mind  about  God  and 
heaven,  rewarding  and  punishing,  for 
giving  and  all,  was  just  impossible;  that 
couldn't  be  done  at  all. 
But  they  tried,  especially  Charlotte.  She'd 
tell  him  the  story  in  the  gospels,  over  and 
over  and  over.  I've  heard  her  myself 
and  it  made  me  cry ;  'twould  have  made 
you  or  anybody.  It's  a  story,  anyway, 
that  you  never  quite  get  used  to,  however 
many  times  you  hear  it.  And  to  listen  to 

Tn 


White    Christopher 

that  poor  woman  telling  it  from  the  very 
beginning  down  to  the  mournful,  sorrow 
ful  end ;  telling  it  in  easy  little  words,  so 
plain  and  simple,  her  voice  shaky  and  her 
eyes  wet,  why,  'twas  the  most  moving 
thing.  But  the  boy  sat  there,  not  appear 
ing  to  hear  one  word  or  take  a  mite  of 
notice,  his  eyes  just  as  dead  and  dull  as 
ever,  his  face  as  cross  and  stupid  looking. 
They  had  a  big  Bible  with  large  print  and 
lots  of  little  pictures  of  Scripture  scenes  ; 
Noah  and  the  ark,  Cain  killing  Abel, 
Daniel  and  the  lions  and  all  that.  And 
in  the  New  Testament  there  was  the 
manger  with  the  baby,  the  boy  in  the 
temple,  and  then  all  those  last  dreadful 
events,  pictured  out  to  most  break  your 
heart.  And  Charlotte  would  hold  that 
Bible  in  her  lap  for  hours,  trying  to  call 
the  boy's  attention  to  it,  pointing  to  the 

[71 


White   Christopher 

pictures  and  telling  him  about  them,  most 
of  all  about  the  New  Testament  ones  and 
that  mournful  thing  that  happened  so  long 
ago  but  means  so  much  to  all  of  us  now. 
But  the  boy  never  took  any  notice  of  the 
pictures  any  more  than  if  they  weren't 
there,  didn't  even  appear  to  see  them  at 
all.  'Twas  sort  of  dreadful  to  watch  his 
stupid  face  and  dead,  blind  looking  eyes 
and  at  the  same  time  see  his  mother's 
features  all  shining  with  that  story,  her 
voice  shaky  and  her  eyes  wet  as  she  told 
the  same  thing  over  and  over  and  over. 
I  don't  know  as  I've  given  you  much 
idea  of  the  Bowles  boy,  after  all,  as  he 
was  right  along  from  a  baby  up  to  twelve 
years  old,  when  the  change  you  asked  me 
about  took  place.  But  it's  the  best  I  can 
do.  A  poor,  half-witted  boy,  that  might 
as  well  be  dead  as  living  as  far  as  being  a 

[  10] 


White    Christopher 

comfort  or  help  to  anybody  or  having  any 
pleasure  in  life  himself;  not  really  bad,  or 
cruel,  but  surely  not  good  or  loving. 
Not  that,  anyway,  except  for  those  little 
quick  spells  which  seemed  to  come  over 
him  once  in  a  while  and  light  him  up,  you 
might  say,  as  if  there  was  something  bright 
and  warm  inside  if  you  could  only  keep 
it  burning.  But  it  went  out  so  quick, 
and  only  a  few  people  ever  saw  it  at  all,  or 
made  anything  of  it,  at  any  rate.  But  his 
mother  always  caught  at  that  or  any  other 
sign  of  the  soul  she  was  certain  sure  was 
there  if  she  could  get  at  it  or  wake  it  up. 
She  has  told  me  time  and  time  again 
about  little  things  nobody  but  a  mother 
would  take  notice  of  that  showed,  she 
thought,  her  poor  boy  understood  and 
felt  and  hoped  and  wished  and  loved, 
most  like  other  folks'  boys,  only  all  in- 


White    Christopher 

side,  not  out.  Poor  Charlotte,  she  had  to 
own  that  it  was  most  generally  in  his  sleep, 
the  child  showed  these  signs.  She'd  go 
to  him  nights  to  see  if  he  was  covered  up 
or  something  and  she'd  see,  so  she  said, 
such  a  beautiful,  live,  understanding  look 
on  his  features  as  he  lay  there  asleep,  as 
though,  even  if  'twas  only  when  he  was 
dreaming,  he  knew  all  about  things  and 
was  perfectly  satisfied.  "  It  most  seems," 
says  she,  telling  me  about  it  once,  "  as  if 
my  boy  was  more  wide  awake  when  he's 
asleep  than  when  he  wakes  up ;  though 
that  sounds  like  a  riddle." 
I  saw  him  that  way  once  myself,  but 
never  but  once.  Charlotte  took  me  into 
his  room  one  evening  when  I  was  over 
there,  and  I  must  say  I  was  all  upset  for 
a  minute  to  see  the  boy.  He  had  a  real 
interested,  enjoying  but  still  look,  most  as 

[    12    ] 


W^hite   Christopher 

if  he  was  seeing  or  listening  to  something 
beautiful.  And  Charlotte,  as  I  said  before, 
caught  at  every  single  little  thing  like  that, 
as  mothers  do  and  always  have  from  Scrip 
ture  days,  and  "  kept  all  these  sayings  " — 
or  doings — "  in  her  heart." 
Now  as  to  what  came  afterwards  I  can't 
explain  it  and  don't  pretend  I  can.  It's 
been  talked  about  and  thought  about  and 
written  about  by  wiser  folks  than  me,  for 
it  made  a  good  deal  of  talk  in  those  days — 
many  years  ago,  it  is  now.  There've  been 
different  ways  of  accounting  for  it  all,  but 
I  don't  know  as  any  one  of  them  is  exact 
ly  satisfying  to  me.  I  just  settle  down 
again,  after  reading  or  listening  to  those 
ideas  and  reasonings,  to  my  old  conclusion, 
what  you  heard  me  say  to-day;  it  hap 
pened  anyway  and  somebody  made  it 
happen.  That's  enough  for  me.  How 


White    Christopher 

'twas  made  to  happen,  what  means  were 
taken  to  bring  it  all  about,  I  don't  know 
and  won't  try  to  guess.  But  what  any 
body  in  this  world  could  see  of  the  whole 
thing  I  saw.  For  as  I  told  you  before, 
I  was  a  great  friend  of  the  family  and  I 
knew  that  boy  from  the  time  he  was  a 
little  baby  to  the  very  end.  And  I'll  tell 
you  all  I  know. 

'Twas  one  day  in  the  fall — October,  I 
think — when  the  boy  was  in  his  twelfth 
year,  that  I  got  word  from  Charlotte  Bowles 
that  she  wanted  to  see  me  and  could  I  come 
over.  I  went  right  up  the  same  afternoon 
for  I  felt  sure  she  really  needed  me,  as 
she  wasn't  one  to  trouble  her  neighbors 
for  every  little  thing.  The  minute  I  saw 
her  face  I  knew  something  pretty  serious 
had  happened.  "  What  is  it,  Charlotte  ?  " 
I  says,  and  she  went  on,  quick  and  ex- 

[  H] 


it  e    Christopher 


cited,  to  tell  me  that  she  really  believed 
the  little  boy  was  "  beginning  to  take 
notice."  Just  think  ;  he  was  most  twelve 
and  she  talked  as  if  it  was  a  baby  two 
months  old.  Seems  that  Cyrus  had  taken 
the  boy  out  that  day  in  the  wagon.  He 
had  an  errand  at  the  store  and  then  went 
on  to  'Lias  Bishop's,  just  over  the  little 
bridge  that  crosses  Gale  river  before  it 
joins  Pond  brook.  Just  as  they  drew  up 
there,  Cyrus  looked  up  at  the  mountains, 
only  happened  to,  and  he  saw  the  Snow 
Cross,  as  they  call  it,  on  Lafayette.  You 
don't  often  see  it  at  that  time  of  year. 
But  there'd  been  an  early  fall  of  snow  and 
a  warm  spell  afterwards,  and  all  the  snow 
but  what  was  left  in  that  hollow  and 
against  the  side  of  that  cliff  —  that's  what 
makes  the  cross,  you  know,  the  snow 
lying  in  those  two  places  that  cross  each 


W^hite    Christopher 

other — had  melted.  And  there  lay  the 
cross,  plainer,  Cyrus  said,  than  he'd  ever 
seen  it  before,  the  sun  shining  on  it  so 
'twas  just  dazzling,  blinding  white. 
He  always  said  afterwards  that  he  couldn't 
recollect  whether  he  spoke  out  loud  or 
touched  the  boy  or  did  anything  like  that 
to  call  his  attention  to  the  sight.  Any 
way,  all  of  a  sudden  he  saw  that  the  boy 
was  looking  at  it,  or  he  seemed  to  be. 
His  nearsighted,  pinky  eyes  were  blink 
ing,  but  a  little  wider  open  than  common, 
and  they  weren't  quite  so  dull  looking, 
somehow,  and — Cyrus  said  he  couldn't 
exactly  put  it  into  words,  but  there  was  a 
kind  of  waking-up  look  about  him,  as  if, 
as  his  mother'd  said,  he  was  "  beginning 
to  take  notice."  Cyrus  didn't  speak  to 
him  or  touch  him.  He  just  waited  to 
see  what  the  boy  would  do.  He  didn't 

[   16] 


White   Christopher 

do  anything  at  first  but  blink  his  eyes  and 
look  and  look  at  that  shining  thing  way 
up  there  on  the  side  of  old  Lafayette. 
He  was  so  still  and  kept  his  eyes  fixed 
there  so  long  that,  after  a  spell,  Cyrus 
was  kind  of  frightened,  so  instead  of  stop 
ping  in  at  'Lias's,  as  he'd  been  going  to,  he 
turned  the  horse  around  and  drove  home. 
And  as  they  started  the  boy  turned  his 
head  round  and  kept  his  eyes  on  that 
cross  on  the  mountain  till  it  was  out  of 
sight. 

That  don't  seem  a  very  wonderful  thing 
to  you,  maybe,  but  it  did  to  Cyrus  and  to 
the  rest  of  us,  too.  For  the  boy  hadn't 
ever,  in  all  those  eleven  years,  as  far  as  we 
knew,  turned  his  head  to  look  at  any  thing 
or  anybody,  before.  Still  I  didn't  make 
as  much  of  it  as  Charlotte  did.  I  asked 
her  how  the  boy'd  gone  on  since  he  came 


White    Christopher 

home,  if  he'd  appeared  any  ways  different 
or  anything.  She  said  he  hadn't  as  she 
could  see.  "  Where  is  he  now  ?  "  I  asked 
her.  She  said  he  was  in  his  old  place  at 
the  back  door.  I  thought  I'd  like  to  look 
at  him  and  see  if  I  noticed  any  change  in 
him,  so  we  went  through  the  kitchen  and 
into  the  back  entry.  The  door  was  open 
and  the  boy  was  sitting  outside  on  the 
top  step.  He  looked  just  the  same  as 
common,  as  far  as  I  could  see,  only  maybe 
sitting  up  a  mite  straighter,  more  as  if  he 
was  looking  at  something  he  really  saw, 
but  his  eyes  were  half  shut  up  still  and 
blinky.  I  could  see  them,  for  I  went 
right  up  side  of  him,  without  his  knowing, 
and  I  thought  they  had  a  more  seeing, 
waked-up  look  in  them ;  that  was  all. 
But  while  we  were  standing  there,  his 
mother  and  me — I'll  never  forget  it  to  my 


White   Christopher 

dying  hour,  because  of  what  came  after 
wards — he  moved  his  arms  that  were 
hanging  down  sort  of  limp  as  they  com 
monly  did,  and  then  began  to  lift  them. 
Slow  and  slow  they  went  up — he  wasn't 
used  to  moving  his  limbs  much — till  in  a 
minute  or  so  they  were  standing  out  from 
his  shoulders  and  there  they  stayed. 
'Twas  just  singular  to  see  it,  he  never 
having  used  his  arms  any  to  speak  of  be 
fore,  though  I  didn't  see  any  particular 
meaning  to  what  he  was  doing,  and  his 
mother  didn't,  either.  But  she  was  worked 
up  and  nervy,  seeing  the  boy  do  this 
thing,  so  different  from  anything  he'd  ever 
done  before,  and  she  ran  up  to  him  and 
put  her  hand  on  his  arm.  I  didn't  think 
he'd  pay  much  attention  to  that,  and 
Charlotte  never  looked  for  it,  either,  but  as 
soon  as  she  touched  him  the  boy  turned 


White    Christopher 

his  head  and  just  gave  her  a  look,  oh, 
such  a  look !  I  shouldn't  have  called  it  a 
smile,  exactly,  but  his  mother  did.  "  He's 
smiling  at  me,"  she  says,  quick  and  earnest 
but  softly,  not  to  start  him.  "  Oh,  see 
him  smiling  at  me  just  like  other  boys  !  " 
He  was  real  still,  keeping  his  two  arms 
stretched  out  stiff  and  straight,  all  the 
time  looking  up  at  his  mother  with  what 
she  called  a  smile.  It  seemed  so  different 
from  common  that  I  think  Charlotte  was 
a  mite  scared  and  she  says  to  me,  "  Oh, 
go  and  call  his  father."  I  ran  out  to  the 
field  where  Cyrus  was  at  work  and  called 
him.  The  boy  had  put  down  his  arms 
when  we  got  back,  but  as  his  father  came 
up  in  front  of  him  he  seemed  to  see  him  ; 
anyway  he  turned  his  face  up  towards  him 
and  that  sort  of  lighting  up  look  came 
over  it  and  again  he  stretched  out  his 


White   Christopher 

arms.  Cyrus  was  pleased  and  interested,  but 
he  took  it  more  as  a  man  does  and  wasn't 
so  excited  as  Charlotte  was.  I  went  over 
home  after  that,  but  I  know — his  mother 
told  me — that  the  boy  stretched  his  arms 
out  two  or  three  times  after  that  before 
night  and  after  he'd  gone  to  bed  they 
found  him  lying  that  way,  fast  asleep,  but 
with  that  pleasant,  friendly  look  his  mother 
called  smiling  staying  all  the  time  on  his 
features. 

I  don't  think  she  had  any  notion  that  first 
day  or  maybe  for  two  or  three  days  after 
of  what  he  meant  by  that  movement  of  his 
two  arms.  'Twas  a  few  days  after  that  Cy 
rus  said  he  meant  to  take  the  boy  to  ride 
again,  it  had  done  him  so  much  good.  He 
took  him  and  they  went  up  Notch  way  as 
they  did  before.  When  they  came  in  sight 
of  the  mountains  and  Lafayette,  Cyrus 


White    Christopher 

looked  up  to  see  if  there  was  any  snow 
left.  But  the  warm  spell  had  kept  on  and 
there  was  only  a  few  little  patches  of  white 
there  so  that  you  couldn't  make  out  any 
cross  at  all.  But  Cyrus  saw  that  the  boy 
was  looking  up  where  it  had  been,  just  as 
he  did  that  other  time.  His  eyes  opened  a 
little  wider,  that  pleasant  look  lighted  up 
his  face  and  he  stretched  out  his  two  arms; 
I  think  maybe  a  little  notion  of  what  the 
boy  meant  came  into  Cyrus's  head  that 
minute.  But  it  was  Charlotte  put  it  into 
words  first  when  her  husband  was  telling 
her  about  it  after  he  got  back.  "  He's 
trying  to  make  the  Snow  Cross,"  she  says, 
almost  crying,  "  he's  copying  that  cross  on 
Lafayette." 

And  he  was ;  we  all  came  to  see  it  pretty 
soon,  though  I  can't  hardly  tell  just  how 
we  knew  it.  He  kept  on  making  that 


White   Christopher 

motion  after  that,  by  spells,  and  often  when 
he  did  it  he'd  look  up  at  Lafayette  or 
where  it  ought  to  be,  till  at  last  we  were 
all  sure  what  he  was  copying  or  trying  to 
copy.  I  find  now,  as  I  try  to  recollect  back 
and  tell  it  all  to  you,  that  I  can't  follow 
things  along  just  in  the  very  order  they 
happened  after  this.  It's  a  good  way  back, 
you  know,  and  of  course  I  never  kept  any 
written  account  of  it.  But  I  am  sure  of 
one  thing.  It  was  the  very  day  after  his 
father  took  the  boy  out  the  second  time 
in  sight  of  Lafayette  that  he  asked  his 
mother  for  white  clothes.  He  couldn't  ask 
her  in  words,  you  know,  but  he  made  her 
understand  somehow — it's  easy  to  make 
mothers  understand — that  he  wanted  his 
clothes  all  white.  She  told  me  he  pointed 
to  her  white  apron  and  to  the  white  table 
cloth  and  to  some  white  things  bleaching 


White    Christopher 

out  on  the  grass  in  the  sunshine  and  then 
stroked  his  own  clothes  and  stretched  out 
his  arms  and  looked  at  his  mother  real  earn 
est  and  wishful.  And  she  says,  "  I  know. 
He  wants  to  be  dressed  up  white,  to  look 
more  like  that  cross  on  the  mountain." 
That  was  the  beginning  of  his  always  wear 
ing  white  clothes.  At  first  Charlotte  put 
them  on  him,  meaning  just  to  satisfy  him 
for  the  time,  and  never  thinking  he'd  want 
to  wear  them  always.  But  it  made  him  so 
pleased  and  he  begged  in  his  own  queer, 
still  way  not  to  have  any  other  kind  put 
on  him,  that  she  gave  in.  And  all  the  rest 
of  his  days  he  was  dressed  in  white  clothes, 
coarse,  plain  things  to  be  sure,  but  clean 
and  white  as  snow,  most.  He  kept  them 
that  way.  He'd  never  had  any  notion  be 
fore  about  taking  care  of  himself  and  what 
he  had  on.  But  now  he  began  to  be  care- 


White   Christopher 

fill,  and  dreadfully  troubled  if  the  littlest 
spot  or  stain  come  on  those  white  clothes. 
I  can't  tell  you  how  singular  he  looked  to 
us  at  first,  though  we  got  used  to  it  after  a 
time.  He  was  so  white  himself,  his  skin, 
his  hair  and  eyebrows  and  lashes,  and  when 
he  had  on  those  white  clothes  and  stood, 
as  he  did  so  much  of  the  time,  straight 
and  stiff,  with  his  poor,  lean  arms  stretched 
out,  why  it  gave  you  a  queer  feeling  to  see 
him.  But  somehow,  even  at  first,  nobody 
laughed  at  him  or  made  fun.  Maybe  as  I 
tell  it,  seems  's  if  they  would,  as  if  he  must 
have  looked  kind  of  laughable.  That's 
because  I  don't  tell  it  right.  I  can't  give 
you  any  idea  of  how  he  appeared,  particu 
lar  of  the  look  that  was  always  on  his 
face  when  he  made  that  motion.  I  can't 
put  it  into  words.  I  never  could.  Charlotte 
called  it  a  smile  the  first  time  it  ever  came, 


JFhite    Christopher 

you  know,  but  I  didn't  call  it  that  then  and 
I  don't  now.  'Twas  just  a  brightening  up 
of  his  eyes  and  face  that  had  always  been 
so  dead  before,  and  a  sort  of  loving,  pleas 
ant,  friendly  look,  and  above  all  it  was  so 
in  earnest,  as  if  his  whole  heart  and  soul  were 
in  it,  as  if  it  meant,  to  him  anyway,  some 
thing  so  particular,  so  important,  his  stand 
ing  there  with  his  arms  stretched  out. 
Aunt  Phrony  Jesseman,  a  dear,  good  old 
woman  that  you  don't  remember — she  died 
before  you  ever  came  to  Franconia — she 
used  to  say  that  the  boy  looked  to  her  as 
if  he  was  carrying  something  very  careful, 
something  he  set  a  good  deal  by;  said  he 
looked  as  if  he  was  proud  and  pleased  to  do 
it,  but  most  afraid.  Anyway  nobody  did 
laugh  at  him,  not  even  the  boys,  and  Fran 
conia  boys  are  just  as  full  of  mischief  as 
any  other  boys. 

[  16] 


White    Christopher 

I  see  now  that  I  ought  to  go  back  a  little. 
I've  known  this  story  myself,  you  see, 
from  the  very  beginning  and  I  keep  for 
getting  it's  all  new  to  you.  I  ought  to  have 
said  before  that  from  the  very  minute  the 
boy  first  reached  out  his  arms  and  had  that 
new,  live  look  on  his  face  he  was  all  changed 
and  different ;  you  might  almost  say  he  was 
another  boy,  not  the  same  one  at  all.  It 
was  more  like  being  born  over  again  than 
anything  else  I  ever  saw.  Of  course  we 
didn't  see  it  all  at  once,  but  a  little  at  a  time, 
as  things  brought  it  out,  but  it  was  there 
from  the  very  first  minute.  The  other  boy, 
the  old  one  we  had  known  for  more  than 
eleven  year,  had  always  been  a  trouble  and 
a  trial  to  every  living  soul  around  him.  This 
new  boy  was  a  comfort  and  blessing  to  all 
of  us.  He  began  to  use  his  limbs  for  other 
things  besides  making  that  motion ;  for 

F71 


White    Christopher 

helping,  kind,  useful  things.  Seemed  as  if 
he  could  see  before  you  hardly  knew  it 
yourself  if  you  wanted  some  little  thing 
done.  And  he'd  do  it,  so  quiet,  and  easy, 
not  fussy  to  call  attention  to  it,  nor  look 
ing  to  be  thanked ;  he'd  only  just  do  it. 
And  always,  always,  every  single  time,  either 
just  before  or  just  after  he'd  helped  you 
he'd  stretch  out  his  arms  and  look  at  you 
with  that — well,  what  his  mother  called  a 
smile.  Maybe  'twas  that  first  put  into  his 
mother's  head  that  the  shape  of  that  sign 
on  the  mountain  had  some  real  meaning  to 
him.  You  see,  it  was  quite  a  spell  before 
we  understood  anything  of  the  real,  inside 
meaning  to  the  change  in  the  boy.  Even 
his  mother,  who  knew  him  best  of  all, 
though,  as  I  said,  she  was  the  first  to  see, 
when  he  put  his  arms  out  that  way  that  he 
was  trying  to  make  the  cross  on  the  moun- 


White    Christopher 

tain,  she  didn't  understand  the  rest.  That 
the  particular  shape  of  what  he'd  seen  had 
any  wonderful  meaning  any  more  than  if 
it  was  a  circle  or  a  square  or  a  catty- 
cornered  thing,  why  she  didn't  take  that  in 
at  all,  first-off.  'Twas  only  when  we  all  saw 
the  difference  in  him,  the  new,  altered  boy 
he'd  been  born  into,  as  you  might  say, 
that  some  of  us,  Charlotte  first,  begun  to 
think  what  that  shape  on  the  mountain 
stood  for  and  what  it  meant,  or  at  any 
rate  ought  to  mean,  to  all  of  us.  But  how 
could  it  mean  anything  to  that  boy?  I've 
told  you  what  he  was,  just  a  half  blind, 
dumb,  stupid  boy.  He'd  never  seemed  to 
take  an  idea  of  any  kind  into  his  poor, 
silly  head.  He  had  never  been  in  a  church 
or  heard  a  sermon,  never  had  read  a  word 
of  Scripture,  or  a  pious  book,  learnt  a 
hymn  or  an  answer  out  of  the  catechism, 


White    Christopher 

never  had,  fact  is,  made  use  of  any  of  what 
we  call  stated  means  of  grace.  So  it  isn't 
any  wonder  that  it  was  a  long  spell  before 
we  could  believe  there  was  any  spiritual 
meaning  in  the  boy's  copying  with  his 
stretched  out  arms  that  white  sign  or  figure 
on  the  side  of  Lafayette.  Fact  is  there  was 
only  a  few  of  us  at  first  that  thought  he 
really  meant  to  copy  it  or  meant  anything 
at  all  by  that  queer  moving  of  his  arms. 
He  kept  doing  it  now,  as  I  said,  over  and 
over  through  the  day,  and  night  times,  too, 
for  his  mother  said  she  often  found  him 
lying  that  way  in  his  sleep.  She  was  the 
first  to  think  there  was  an  inside  meaning  ; 
but  it  wasn't  very  long  before  most  every 
body  somehow  took  up  that  idea.  You'd 
have  done  it  yourself  if  you  had  been 
here  then  and  seen  him  day  after  day.  It 
was  only  that  one  shape  or  figure  that  in- 

[30  ] 


White   Christopher 

terested  him,  and  he  looked  for  that  and 
found  it,  too,  in  lots  and  lots  of  things.  You 
wouldn't  think  there  was  so  many  articles 
in  the  world  shaped  like  that. 
He'd  come  in  some  spring  day,  his  hands 
full  of  those  little  flowers  that  make  the 
pastures  all  whitey-blue,  eyebrights  you 
call  them.  That  lady  that  boarded  at  Miss 
Peabody's  said  they  were  quaker-ladies  and 
Dr.  Dudley  gives  them  the  name  of  in 
nocents  ;  I  had  an  aunt  from  Connecticut 
that  always  called  them  venus's-prides. 
But  whatever  their  name  is,  there  are  always 
plenty  of  them  here  in  May  and  June,  and 
the  boy  would  always  pick  them.  He 
seemed  to  set  so  much  by  them  and  he'd 
always  stretch  his  arms  out,  when  he  saw 
them.  So  we  began  to  see  that,  look  at  it 
close,  every  one  of  those  little  flowers  made 
a  kind  of  cross,  and  he  knew  it.  There  are 

[3-  ] 


White    Christopher 

four  little  parts,  you  know,  to  the  posy 
part,  and,  hold  it  one  way,  they  make  an 
up  and  down  piece  and  two  arms,  like  a 
little  whitey-blue  cross.  There  were  lots  of 
posies  that  way,  besides;  mustard  and  water 
cress  and  even  that  common  little  pepper 
grass;  why,  you'd  see,  after  he'd  made  you 
take  notice,  that  they  were  all  just  lots  and 
lots  of  little  bits  of  crosses,  and  he  loved 
them  all.  Seems  to  me  he  loved  everything 
and  everybody  now. 

The  queerest  thing  was  the  creatures,  the 
horses  and  dogs  and  cats  and  sheep  find 
ing  out  the  change  so  quick.  I  told  you 
he  never  had  liked  them  or  treated  them 
well  and  they'd  alv/ays  kept  a  safe  distance 
from  him.  But  we  saw  pretty  soon  now 
that  they'd  found  how  different  he  was  and 
set  everything  by  him.  They  were  always 
round  him,  rubbing  their  heads  against 

[3*  ] 


White    Christopher 

him,  whinnying  or  barking  or  purring  or 
lowing  or  baaing  when  he  came  nigh,  and 
he'd  stroke  or  pat  or  smooth  them  and 
even  bring  them  victuals  or  drink,  always, 
every  single  time,  making  that  singular 
motion  of  stretching  out  his  arms.  So  all 
the  creatures  about  the  farm  and  at  the 
neighbors',  too,  got  to  know  that  sign  and 
feel  it  meant  something  good  and  comfort 
able  for  themselves.  It  wasn't  only  the 
creatures  that  loved  him  and  watched  for 
him ;  every  man,  woman  and  child  in 
Franconia,  Sugar  Hill,  Bethlehem  and  the 
whole  district  round  got  to  being  fond  of 
that  boy.  You  couldn't  help  it.  He  was 
the  gentlest,  kindest,  helpfulest  boy  you 
ever  saw,  loving  to  his  own  folks  and 
neighbors,  pleasant  to  everybody,  always 
ready  to  help  people,  comfort  them  in 
trouble  in  his  still  way,  for  he  never  learnt 

nn 


JFhite    Christopher 

to  speak,  good  to  all  animals, — oh,  I  can't 
tell  you  what  he  was  in  those  days  and  up 
to  the  end. 

I  told  you  there  was  a  good  deal  of  talk 
about  it  all ;  there  couldn't  help  being. 
The  people  all  round  there  saw  him  and 
wondered  about  him  and  what  it  all  meant. 
The  summer  boarders  when  they  came 
watched  him  and  talked  about  it,  and 
people  came  from  miles  away  to  see  White 
Christopher.  Oh,  I  forgot  I  hadn't  told 
you  about  his  having  a  name.  You  know 
I  said  his  folks  hadn't  ever  given  him  a 
first  name.  The  summer  after  he  waked 
up  and  first  saw  the  snow  cross,  there  was 
a  minister  came  to  Simon  Gould's  to  board. 
He  was  dreadfully  interested  in  the  boy 
and  when  he  found  he  hadn't  any  name  he 
said  he  ought  to  be  called  Christopher.  I 
don't  think  Crus  and  Charlotte  under- 


White    Christopher 

stood  just  at  first  what  the  word  meant  and 
why  it  seemed  appropriate  but  they  thought 
it  was  a  nice  sounding  name  and  they  gave 
it  to  the  boy.  So  on  account  of  his  looks 
and  the  clothes  he  wore  he  got  to  being 
called  by  everybody  round,  White  Chris 
topher.  That  was  the  way  he  got  his 
Christian  name.  A  spell  afterwards  Pro 
fessor  Morse  that  taught  in  the  Academy 
at  Littleton  told  me  what  the  name  meant 
in  some  foreign  language  and  I  thought  it 
was  just  beautiful  and  such  a  good  name 
for  the  boy. 

As  I  said,  there've  been  people,  a  good 
many,  I  guess,  that  have  thought  Chris 
topher  didn't  have  any  real  meaning  to 
what  he  did,  that  he  didn't  know  what  a 
cross  was,  nor  what  it  stood  for,  and  that 
it  only  just  happened,  his  putting  out  his 
arms  that  way,  a  kind  of  accident,  you 


White    Christopher 

know.  Well,  maybe  it  was  that  way,  I 
can't  prove  the  other  thing,  though  I  be 
lieve  it  just  as  much  as  I  believe  the 
Bible.  But,  supposing  they  were  right 
and  it  didn't  mean  anything  to  the  boy, 
why,  at  any  rate,it  meant  something  to  other 
folks,  as  anybody  could  see  plain  enough. 
I  can't  begin  to  tell  you  of  the  times  that 
White  Christopher  set  things  right, 
smoothed  away  worries,  settled  quarrels, 
"  turned  away  wrath,"  as  Scripture  says, 
with  that  one  thing,  almost  the  only  thing 
he  knew  how  to  do.  It  was  his  way  of 
preaching,  even  if  he  never  knew  what  his 
sermons  meant.  I  never  knew  a  discourse 
ever  so  full  of  heads  and  fourthlies  and 
fifthlies  and  stuffed  with  doctrines  and  de 
crees  go  home  so  to  folks'  hearts  as  that 
one  still,  small  sermon  of  the  boy's. 
You  might  think  everybody  would  get  so 

[36] 


White    Christopher 

used  to  it  after  a  spell  that  it  wouldn't  have 
much  effect.  It's  singular  to  me  that  it 
didn't  work  that  way,  but  it  didn't.  I  never 
got  used  to  it  myself.  I  never  came 
upon  that  boy,  standing  with  his  arms 
out,  let  it  be  in  the  bright  daytime  with 
the  sun  a  shining  on  his  white  figure  till  it 
most  seemed  as  if  it  was  giving  out  light 
itself,  or  again  in  the  dark  of  the  evening 
when  it  showed  white  and  soft  like  a  cloud, 
or  a  bit  of  mist  amongst  the  trees  or  against 
the  black  hill  side,  or  most  of  all  at  sun 
down  when  that  purply  light  we  have  here 
in  the  mountains  came  and  touched  every 
thing,  the  white  boy  amongst  the  rest, 
making  him  almost  red  for  a  spell  instead 
of  white,  I  never,  I  tell  you,  came  upon 
him  without  a  queer,  solemn  feeling  and  a 
remembering,  a  coming  home  to  me  of 
many,  many  things  I'd  have  been  in  dan- 


White    Christopher 

ger  of  forgetting  without  him.  I  know 
'twas  so  with  other  folks,  too.  Some  of  them 
told  me  so  and  other  times  I'd  see  the  ef 
fect  myself. 

Why,  even  when  the  boys  were  quarrelling 
over  their  plays,  their  faces  red  and  mad, 
their  voices  loud  and  harsh,  fists  doubled 
up  ready  to  hit  or  holding  a  stone  to  fling 
at  another,  White  Christopher  would  know 
it  somehow,  he  always  appeared  to  find  out 
when  such  doings  were  going  on,  and  first 
thing  you  knew  he'd  be  standing  there, 
white  and  straight,  with  his  two  white  arms 
stretched  out  and  over  and  betwixt  them 
that  white  face  with  the  loving,  earnest, 
wishful  look  on  it,  and  the  boys,  they 
mightn't  give  up  right  away  ;  maybe  they'd 
keep  on  a  minute  or  so  longer  in  the  way 
boys  do,  you  know,  afraid  of  appearing  to 
give  in  too  easy.  But  they  couldn't  stand 


White   Christopher 

it  long;  first  one  and  then  another'd  drop 
out  and  steal  off,  and  they'd  all  scatter 
before  you  knew  it,  ashamed  and  sorry,  all 
the  fight  gone  out  of  them.  Folks  said  he 
put  an  end  to  a  dog  fight  the  same  way 
once.  Suppose  he  did,  why  not  ?  I  read  in 
a  book  only  the  other  day  about  a  saint,  I 
forget  his  name,  that  used  to  preach  ser 
mons  to  the  beasts,  and  another  that  dis 
coursed  to  the  fish,  so  why  shouldn't  White 
Christopher  preach  his  one  little,  still 
sermon  to  the  dogs  he  liked  so  much  and 
was  always  so  good  to  ?  When  there  was 
trouble  among  neighbors,  angry  words, 
hard  names  and  threatenings,  where  no 
body  else  could  interfere  or  say  a  word 
without  making  matters  worse,  Christopher 
would  steal  in  like  a  thin,  white,  little 
ghost,  so  quiet  and  softly,  stretch  out  his 
arms  and  stand,  looking  at  them.  Nothing 


White    Christopher 

but  that,  just  standing  and  looking  at  them. 
And  it  worked  a  change,  almost  always  and 
a  quick  one  too.  And  in  town-meeting 
arguments,  pretty  hot  ones  sometimes, 
with  high  feeling  on  two  sides  or  more,  it 
was  the  same  way. 

And  in  the  church — but  I  must  go  back 
again  a  little.  Maybe  you'd  think  that 
now  the  boy  was  so  changed  and  bettered 
he'd  be  brought  into  the  church,  or  at  any 
rate  would  attend  meeting  Sundays.  It 
does  appear  so,  but  it  didn't  work  that  way. 
Seems  as  if  only  one  idea  of  religion  had 
been  put  into  his  poor  head.  That  was  his 
whole  religious  life  and  he  couldn't  take  in 
anything  that  didn't  bear  upon  that.  Char 
lotte  and  Cyrus  tried  taking  him  to  meet 
ing.  It  was  in  the  days  of  the  old  union 
meeting-house  and  Mr.  Foster  was  the 
Congregational  minister.  He  was  a  good 

[4°] 


W^hite    Christopher 

man  and  he  took  a  great  interest  in  Chris 
topher  and  wanted  him  to  come  to  meeting. 
But  when  the  boy  got  there  one  Sunday 
with  his  folks  he  appeared  disappointed, 
not  satisfied,  somehow.  I  don't  know  what 
he  had  expected,  what  kind  of  idea  he'd 
got  into  his  head  of  where  his  mother  was 
bringing  him  and  what  he'd  see.  But  any 
way  he  looked  all  around  at  the  white  walls 
and  the  pulpit  and  gallery  and  pews;  seemed 
as  if  he  was  looking  for  something.  Then 
he  stretched  out  his  arms,  gave  his  mother 
one  of  those  friendly  looks  of  his,  and 
turned  and  went  away.  It  appeared  as  if 
there  was  only  one  kind  of  religion,  one 
part  of  the  whole  gospel  idea  he  could  un 
derstand  or  take  in  and  that  was  the  part 
he  called  to  folks'  notice  when  he  stretched 
out  his  arms  and  looked  at  them.  He  never 
went  to  meeting  again,  not,  I  mean,  to  a 


White    Christopher 

regular  Sunday  service.  There  were  two 
or  three  times  he  was  just  inside  the  door 
when  he  thought  he  was  needed,  but  I'll 
tell  you  about  that  by-and-by. 
His  mother  used  to  show  him  the  pictures 
in  the  big  Bible,  just  as  she  did  before  the 
change  came.  She'd  go  over  the  whole  of 
them  from  Adam  and  Eve  in  the  garden 
down  to  the  beasts  and  the  dragons  in 
Revelations,  turning  the  leaves,  patient  and 
pleasant,  pointing  out  everything  and  ex 
plaining  all  about  them.  Christopheralways 
kept  still  now  and  never  jerked  away  or 
pushed  her  off,  but  you  could  see  he  wasn't 
taking  any  notice  or  understanding  a  word. 
The  flood,  Sodom  and  Gomorrah,  David 
killing  Goliath,  Queen  Esther  and  poor, 
afflicted  Job  didn't  appear  to  interest  him 
a  bit,  and  when  she  came  to  the  New  Tes 
tament,  the  baby  in  the  manger,  the  healing 

[42  ] 


White   Christopher 

the  sick,  raising  up  the  dead,  not  even  that 
beautiful  picture  of  the  Good  Shepherd 
with  the  lamb  in  his  arms,  not  one  of  them 
did  he  take  a  mite  of  notice  of.  Only  just 
one  single  picture  interested  him  and  he 
waited,  still  and  dull  looking,  all  through 
the  Bible  till  his  mother  came  to  that.  It 
wasn't  one  of  the  best  pictures,  not  by  any 
means,  it  was  dark  and  blurry  and  hard  to 
make  out.  But  he  knew  it,  Christopher  did, 
the  very  minute  Charlotte  turned  to  that 
page.  It  was  a  picture  of  that  last  awful, 
awful  time  when  the  cross  stood  there  stiff 
and  straight,  its  two  arms  stretched  out  and 
Him  upon  it.  The  cross  itself  hardly 
showed,  the  picture  was  so  black  and  blotty, 
but  the  boy  always  found  it,  and  right  away, 
too.  He'd  stoop  down,  putting  his  half 
blind,  blinking  eyes  close  to  the  page  to 
see  it  better,  and  then  he'd  straighten  up 


White    Christopher 

and  hold  out  his  arms  and  look  with  that 
loving,  half  sorry,  half  pleased  look,  that 
wasn't  like  any  other  look  I  ever  saw. 
As  I  said  before,  he'd  find  that  shape 
wherever  it  was.  There  was  a  tall,  spruce 
tree,  a  dead  one,  on  Garnet  Hill.  It  had 
been  dead  a  good  while  and  most  of  its 
branches  were  gone.  But  a  little  ways  from 
the  top  there  was  one  left  on  each  side, 
standing  out,  straight  and  stiff.  He  saw  it 
one  day  when  he  was  riding  with  Cyrus 
and  right  off  he  made  his  own  favorite  mo 
tion  with  his  two  arms.  He  often  went  out 
to  see  it  after  that,  and  when  you'd  had 
your  attention  called  to  it  once  it  did  look 
just  exactly  like  a  tall,  black  cross,  stand 
ing  out  against  the  light  colored  sky,  all 
alone  up  there  on  a  hill. 
He  liked  all  creatures,  as  I  told  you,  but 
there  were'some  he  set  more  by  than  others. 

[~44l 


W^hite    Christopher 

There  was  a  sorrel  horse  that  belonged  to 
Moses  Watson,  out  on  the  Landaff  road. 
It  had  a  white  mark  on  its  forehead,  such 
as  most  folks  call  a  star.  But  it  was  a  cross 
plain  enough  to  White  Christopher  and  he 
always  called  it  so — in  his  own  way  of 
course.  When  he  met  it  in  the  road  he'd 
stop  right  in  front  of  it  and  make  his  mo 
tion  till  I  believe  that  horse  knew  all  about 
it  and  what  mark  there  was  on  his  own 
forehead. 

I  was  saying,  a  little  ways  back,  that  even 
if  anybody  held  the  idea  that  White  Chris 
topher  didn't  mean  anything  particular  by 
the  sign  or  shape  he  made,  we  could  all  see 
what  it  meant  to  other  folks;  I  meant  even'. 
to  scoffers  and  unbelievers.  That  seemed 
singular  to  me.  It  wasn't  so  strange  that 
members  of  the  church,  converted  souls, 
saved  by  the  cross  themselves,  should  have 


White    Christopher 

recognized  its  form  when  the  boy  made  it, 
and  remembered  all  it  meant.  But  it  wasn't 
them  alone  that  felt  it  all  and  became  quiet 
and  serious  and  changed,  if  only  for  a  min 
ute,  when  they  saw  this  white,  straight 
figure  with  the  arms  stretched  out.  There 
was  Lysander  Emmons,  an  infidel,  and 
proud  of  being  one,  always  telling  round 
what  he  believed — or  didn't  believe,  I 
mean — and  trying  to  shake  other  folks' 
faith  in  the  best  and  most  comforting 
things.  When  Lysander  first  heard  talk 
about  Christopher  and  his  doings  he  made 
a  great  deal  of  fun  of  it  all.  I  wouldn't  like 
to  tell  right  out  the  things  he  said  about 
the  boy  and  the  shape  he  made  with  his 
arms,  and  all  that  shape  stood  for.  'Twas 
dreadful  talk  and  I'd  rather  forget  it.  But 
after  a  spell  he  stopped  talking  that  way. 
I  never  knew  just  how  it  came  about,  nor 

[46  ] 


White    Christopher 

heard  how  Lysander  himself  first  saw  the 
boy  make  that  one  motion  of  his,  and  how 
it  struck  him.  But  for  quite  a  spell  he 
would  go  a  long  piece  out  of  his  way  to 
get  rid  of  meeting  the  boy.  It  seemed  to 
make  him  uncomfortable  to  see  Chris 
topher  at  all,  particularly  in  that  favorite 
position  of  his.  However,  after  a  time  he 
appeared  to  change  about  that  and  to  begin 
to  like  the  boy  as  everybody  else  did,  and 
he  ended  up  by  getting  real  fond  of  him. 
At  first  he  kept  on,  at  the  store  and  such 
places,  talking  the  old,  profane,  unbeliev 
ing  talk,  but  always  stopping  short  the 
minute  he  saw  White  Christopher  come 
along.  After  a  spell  he  stopped  talking 
that  way  anywheres  even  when  the  boy 
wasn't  around.  He  had  been  brought  up 
by  a  good,  believing  mother,  one  of  the 
best  women  in  Waterford,  across  the  river 


White    Christopher 

from  Littleton,  you  know,  in  Vermont. 
She'd  been  dead  a  long  time  then,  but  I 
suppose  her  teachings  came  back  to  the 
man  when  he  saw  Christopher  mark  out 
that  shape  she  had  told  him  the  story 
about  years  before.  But  he  never  owned 
up.  One  time  when  somebody  passed  him 
in  the  road,  just  after  he  had  met  the  boy, 
and  saw  him  sort  of  brushing  his  eyes  as 
if  he  couldn't  see  plain,  he  explained  that 
it  wasn't  that  "  ridiculous  thing  "  the  boy 
was  doing  that  stirred  him  up,  only  some 
thing  it  reminded  him  of.  Well,  I  guess 
it  reminded  us  all  of  something,  fact  is. 
But  he  couldn't  keep  from  folks  that  he'd 
got  fond  of  the  boy;  everybody  could  see 
that  he  set  worlds  by  him. 
One  day  Lysander  was  marking  his  sheep. 
You  know  you  have  to  put  a  mark  of 
some  kind  on  them  to  tell  them  from 

[48  ] 


White    Christopher 

other  people's  sheep.  Folks  have  different 
marks  and  it  happened  that  Lysander's 
was  a  kind  of  a  cross  mark  or  a  letter  X, 
one  straight  line  crossing  another.  He 
was  putting  it  on  with  red  paint,  and  just 
as  he  was  holding  a  sheep  and  laying  on 
this  mark,  White  Christopher  and  his 
mother  came  along.  The  minute  the  boy 
saw  what  was  going  on  he  looked  dread 
fully  pleased.  That  sort  of  loving  smile, 
if  you  might  call  it  so,  lighted  up  his  face 
as  he  looked  at  Lysander  and  then  he 
stretched  out  his  arms.  His  mother  saw 
what  he  meant  and  was  a  mite  afraid  the 
man  would  not  like  it,  proud  as  he'd  al 
ways  been  of  being  an  infidel,  so  she  drew 
the  boy  away  with  her  along  the  road. 
But  when  she'd  gone  a  few  steps  she  heard 
Lysander  call  her  and  turning  round  she 
saw  him  beckoning.  She  went  back,  and 


Jf^hite    Christopher 

he  whispers  to  her  so  as  not  to  let  the  boy 
hear,  looking  sort  of  foolish  and  ashamed 
all  the  time,  "  There's  no  occasion,"  he 
says,  stammering,  "  to  tell  the  boy  what 
I'm  actually  doing;  he  thinks — well,  you 
know  what  idea  he's  got  about  this — and 
mebbe  you'd  better  let  him  go  on  think 
ing  so,  if  it  pleases  him." 
Well,  after  that,  White  Christopher  set 
everything  by  those  sheep.  He  appeared 
to  feel  as  if  they  belonged  to  him  and  he 
must  look  out  for  them,  see  they  had  food 
and  drink  and  were  all  safe  and  sheltered 
at  night.  If  any  of  those  sheep  of  Lysan- 
der's,  with  that  mark  on  them  in  red, 
strayed  away  or  got  into  any  kind  of 
trouble  the  boy  seemed  to  find  it  out 
somehow  and  came  to  their  help.  And 
many  lost  or  troubled  sheep  of  other 
kinds  were  found  out  and  helped  by 

[  50] 


White    Christopher 

White  Christopher.  As  I  look  back  to 
that  time  I  wonder  more  and  more  that 
this  whole  district  isn't  different  from  other 
districts  anywheres.  For  years  we  all  lived 
right  under  the  shadow  of  the  cross,  you 
might  say.  Night  and  day  it  was  there, 
helping  and  comforting  and  warning. 
There  wasn't  a  man,  woman  or  child  in 
the  village  or  for  miles  around  that  could 
forget,  even  if  they  tried  to,  that  blessed 
shape  and  what  it  stood  for. 
Elder  Welcome  was  at  Sugar  Hill  village 
then.  You  have  heard  of  him.  He  was 
one  of  the  old  sort  of  strict,  narrow,  severe 
ministers,  always  preaching  the  law  and  in 
danger  of  forgetting  the  gospel.  He  was 
sometimes  real  harsh  in  his  manners,  but 
he  had  a  kind  heart  inside,  though  many 
never  found  it  out.  The  Elder  was  dread 
fully  down  on  what  he  called  popery  and 


White   Christopher 

he  gave  that  name  to  lots  of  things  I  never 
should.  He  wouldn't  have  anything  to  do 
with  some  of  the  very  best  and  most  com 
forting  things,  or  what  appears  to  me  so, 
if  they  were  things  followed  and  made 
much  of  by  what  he  called  papists.  And 
it  wasn't  only  one  denomination  he  gave 
that  name  to. 

When  he  first  heard  talk  of  Christopher 
and  his  doings  he  was  dreadfully  worked 
up.  He  said  he  knew  what  folks  meant  by 
what  they  were  saying  though  he  didn't 
believe  the  poor,  foolish  boy  meant  any 
such  thing.  He  said  it  was  one  of  the  most 
dangerous  things  in  the  world,  and  'twas 
called  making  the  sign  of  the  cross.  That 
don't  sound  so  dangerous,  does  it  ?  But  I 
was  brought  up  myself  to  think  it  was  and 
maybe  it's  so.  Anyway  that  wasn't  exactly 
what  White  Christopher  did.  I've  seen 

[  5*  ] 


ff^hite    Christopher 

the  real  thing,  seen  Catholics  and  Episco- 
pals,  too,  the  highest  sort,  you  know,  do 
it,  and  it  isn't  just  precisely  like  Chris 
topher's  sign,  though  I  guess  it  sometimes 
does  what  the  boy's  motion  did,  makes 
you  think  of  things  it's  good  to  call  to 
mind.  So  the  Elder  talked  and  even 
preached  against  this  thing,  and  other  mere 
outward  forms,  as  he  said,  copyings  of  the 
dangerous  and  idolatrous  practices  of  cer 
tain  mistaken  sects,  and  so  on.  For  a  spell 
he  didn't  see  the  boy  following  this  dan 
gerous  practice  himself,  and  I  never  knew 
how  he  came  to  at  last. 
Cyrus  and  Charlotte  didn't  belong  to  his 
church,  but  they'd  known  the  Elder  all 
their  days  and  looked  up  to  him.  Fact  is 
he  sort  of  ruled  over  all  that  section  of 
country  and  had  the  whole  say  as  to  re 
ligion  and  churches  and  all  that.  'Twas  a 

nn 


White   Christopher 

good  deal  the  way  popes  do,  I  suppose, 
even  if  the  Elder  was  so  down  on  them 
and  their  followers.  So  he  came  over  to 
Franconia  and  dealt  with  the  boy's  father 
and  mother  about  Christopher.  Maybe  it 
was  then  he  first  saw  the  boy  make  that 
solemn  motion.  I  know  he  talked  to  him 
and  tried  to  make  him  understand  how 
dangerous  it  was  to  go  on  doing  that,  and 
why  'twas  wicked  to  introduce  such  mere 
forms  and  idolatrous  doings  into  commu 
nities.  But  it  didn't  appear  to  make  much 
impression  and  the  boy  went  on  stretching 
out  his  poor,  weak  arms,  day  and  night, 
to  tired,  troubled,  sinful  folks,  and  being 
a  sign  and  a  sermon,  a  help  and  a  comfort 
and  a  loving  reminding  to  all  of  us. 
You  see  'twas  different,  as  far  as  I  know, 
from  what  anybody  else  in  the  world  ever 
did  before.  Folks  have  preached  the  cross, 


White   Christopher 

and  borne  the  cross,  some  people  have 
died  for  the  cross,  and  a  few,  dreadful 
few,  have  been  put  to  death  on  the  cross, 
copying  as  well  as  could  be,  in  a  poor, 
weak,  human  way,  what  their  Master 
did.  But  this  boy  became  the  cross  it 
self  and  there  it  stood  before  us  day  after 
day,  night  after  night,  till  we  knew  it  by 
heart,  its  shape,  its  looks,  its  sad  and  dread 
ful,  but  somehow  beautiful  meaning,  every 
single  soul  of  us  in  this  Franconia  valley. 
To  be  sure  we'd  had  a  sign  of  the  same 
thing  with  us  years  and  years,  by  spells. 
Way  up  on  the  side  of  old  Lafayette 
would  come  out  once  in  a  while,  sudden 
and  bright  and  plain  a  great  white  cross. 
Sometimes  all  this  valley  would  be  in  fog 
and  the  dark  and  wet,  for  days  and  days 
in  May  when  the  spring  had  ought  to 
been  with  us,  and  just  as  we  were  getting 

rrn 


White    Christopher 

discouraged  and  low  in  our  minds  there'd 
come  up  a  breeze  and  the  mist  and  clouds 
would  roll  away  from  the  mountains  like  a 
curtain  lifting,  and  there  would  be  the 
great,  white,  shining  sign,  way  up  on  La 
fayette.  But  it  hadn't  meant  much  to  us 
somehow.  I  guess  it  was  too  far  up,  too 
strange  and  high  and  dazzling.  We  needed 
something  low  down,  closer  to  us,  every 
day  like,  just  to  make  clear,  to  explain  in 
easy  words,  as  you  might  say,  that  high, 
wonderful  sign  up  in  the  clouds. 
There  was  a  good  deal  of  feeling  those 
days  between  the  different  denominations. 
I  suppose  there  is  now  and  always  will  be 
in  this  world.  There  was  going  to  be  some 
kind  of  a  missionary  meeting  in  Franconia 
one  time,  with  people  from  all  round  this 
section  attending,  and  a  minister  from 
Nashua  to  make  an  address  and  so  on. 

[  56] 


White    Christopher 

'Twas  a  great  time  for  us  and  a  meeting 
was  called  a  spell  beforehand  to  arrange 
about  it.  The  three  ministers  in  this  vil 
lage  were  there  besides  the  Littleton  and 
Lisbon  and  Bethlehem  and  Whitefield 
ones.  It  was  in  the  old  union  meeting 
house  and  most  everybody  round  here 
went.  I  don't  just  recollect  how  it  came 
about  nor  what  started  it  but  the  meeting 
hadn't  more  than  begun  before  there  was 
trouble.  The  Baptist  minister  from  Lis 
bon  proposed  something  or  other  and  the 
Congregational  from  Whitefield  went 
against  it.  And  then  first  thing  we  knew 
they  were  all  taking  sides  and  the  point 
was,  not  whether  this  or  that  way  of  run 
ning  the  missionary  meeting  was  best,  but 
whether  this  or  that  sect  was  right  in  their 
doctrines.  At  it  they  went,  hot  and  fierce, 
loud  and  angry,  and  growing  worse  and 

nn 


White    Christopher 

worse  every  minute.  Sprinkling  or  dip 
ping,  free  will  or  election,  perseverance  or 
falling  from  grace,  all  were  brought  up  and 
argued  for  and  against  till  you  couldn't 
hear  yourself  whisper.  And  it  was  called 
a  union  meeting  too. 

Elder  Welcome  was  in  the  thick  of  it  from 
the  start.  I  can  see  him  now  as  I  think  it 
all  over,  a  tall,  big  framed  man  with  a  thick 
head  of  bushy,  gray  hair,  looking  most 
white  'twas  so  near  his  red  face.  And  there 
he  stood  a  swinging  his  long  arms  and 
bringing  down  one  big  fist  on  the  palm  of 
the  other  hand  and  bellowing  out  what  he 
believed  and  what  he  said  others  didn't 
believe.  Just  in  the  middle  of  one  of  his 
loudest,  harshest  sayings  I  somehow  heard 
— or  felt,  more  like,  for  I  don't  see  how  I 
could  have  heard  it  in  all  that  noise — a 
little  kind  of  rustling,  moving  sound.  And 

[  58  ] 


White   Christopher 

I  see  the  old  Elder  stop  speaking  and  stand 
just  as  quiet  without  moving,  his  long  arms 
still  raised  up  in  that  threatening  way  of 
his  as  if  he  was  going  to  knock  down  any 
body  that  didn't  hold  his  views. 
He  was  looking  down  the  aisle  towards  the 
door  and  I  saw  his  face  kind  of  change  as 
if  it  was  shaking  a  little  and  the  red  went 
out  of  it.  I  thought  for  a  minute  he'd  got 
some  kind  of  attack  or  stroke.  Then  I  see 
other  folks  move  round  and  look  towards 
the  door  too  and  I  turned  my  head  like 
the  rest.  And  there  right  inside  the  door 
way  was  a  little  slim  white  figure  with  two 
arms  held  straight  out  and  a  white  face, 
betwixt  them  with  a  loving,  though  just  a' 
mite  anxious,  look,  that  wasn't  exactly  a 
smile,  on  its  features,  and  I  knew  White 
Christopher  had  come.  Everybody  saw 
him  and  the  house  seemed  dreadful  still, 


W^hite    Christopher 

after  all  the  noise  and  racket  of  that  reli 
gious  discussion.  I  don't  think  there  was 
a  soul  there  that  didn't  take  in  a  blessed 
meaning  to  the  sign  that  time,  anyway. 
They  couldn't  help  seeing  the  difference 
betwixt  the  two  ends  of  that  aisle  in  the 
meeting-house  just  then.  Up  pulpit  way 
the  angry,  excited,  argufying  Christian 
ministers  lifting  their  arms  to  threaten  and 
put  down  their  fellow  Christians  that  didn't 
think  their  own  way.  And  again,  down  at 
the  door  that  little  quiet  figure,  holding 
out  his  slim,  weak  arms  in  the  shape  of 
that  one  great  thing  that  Christians  every 
where  can  agree  in  remembering  with  love 
and  everlasting  thanksgiving.  'Twasn't  but 
a  few  seconds,  I  suppose,  but  it  appeared  a 
longtime  before  the  Elder  dropped  his  hands 
and  sat  down  without  another  word  and 
Dr.  Lovell  from  Whitefield  offered  prayer. 

[  60] 


White   Christopher 

I  was  going  to  tell  you  about  two  or  three 
more  occasions  in  that  same  old  union 
meeting-house  when  Christopher  came  in 
just  the  nick  of  time,  as  you  might  say, 
when  good  folks  had  forgot  themselves  for 
the  minute  and  there  was  a  storm  and  noise. 
In  his  still  way,  without  a  single  word  out 
of  his  dumb  lips,  he  seemed  to  say,  most 
as  his  Master  did  that  time  when  the  waves 
of  the  sea  ran  high,  "Peace,  be  still."  and 
I  tell  you,  as  Scripture  says,  there  was  a 
great  calm. 

But  I  won't  go  into  the  particulars,  for  this 
story  I'm  telling  is  too  long  a'ready. 
There  isn't  any  singular  ending  to  it  as 
perhaps  you'd  think  there  might  be. ' 
Seems  as  if,  if  we  humans  had  arranged 
things,  we  should  have  made  the  lesson  of 
that  poor  boy's  life  those  years  stronger 
by  having  it  end  up  in  some  remarkable 


White   Christopher 

way  that  nobody  could  forget  nor  help 
paying  attention  to.  If  he  had  lost  his 
life,  to  save  somebody,  if  he'd  been  able 
to  speak  just  before  the  end  if  'twas  only 
one  word,  just  to  show  what  he'd  really 
meant  by  his  one  sign  and  signal,  why  that 
would  have  appeared  so  appropriate  and 
fitting  somehow.  But  it  wasn't  so.  He  was 
never  very  strong,  you  know,  and  he  just 
kind  of  weakened  and  weakened,  grew 
whiter  and  thinner  and  faded  away  like  a 
flower  when  its  time  has  come. 
There  was  one  thing  about  his  dying  that 
I've  never  talked  about  with  Franconia 
folks.  But  it  won't  do  any  harm  to  speak 
of  it  to  you  after  all  these  years.  Mr. 
Foster,  the  minister  here  that  had  taken 
so  much  interest  in  Christopher,  was 
away  when  the  boy  lay  so  sick.  And 
when  Cyrus  and  Charlotte  saw  the  end 

[62  ] 


White   Christopher 

was  near  they  sent  for  Elder  Welcome. 
He  was  there  at  the  very  last  and  I  was 
there  too;  nobody  else  but  the  boy's  father 
and  mother.  Christopher  had  laid  still  and 
quiet  for  quite  a  spell  with  his  eyes  shut 
up  and  we  thought  he  was  most  gone. 
He  hadn't  made  his  sign  now  for  some 
hours ;  he  was  too  weak  to  raise  his  arms. 
And  there  we  waited,  watching  him  and 
listening  close  for  the  kst  little  breath. 
Cyrus  and  Charlotte  were  right  side  of  him, 
and  I  was  in  the  corner  back  of  the  head 
of  the  bed  where  I  could  see  the  boy  and 
the  rest  but  not  trouble  anybody  by  being 
around.  Elder  Welcome  stood  at  the  foot 
of  the  bed  looking  at  the  dying  boy.  He'd 
been  real  fond  of  him,  like  all  of  us,  and 
I'd  never  seen  his  face  look  so  kind  and 
yearning  and  sorry  before.  I  couldn't  help 
looking  at  it  instead  of  watching  the  little, 


VPhite    Christopher 

white  face  on  the  pillow  that  I  knew  so 
well.  And  all  of  a  sudden  I  saw  the  old 
man's  look  change  and  he  gave  a  start.  I 
turned  to  look  at  the  boy  and  I  saw  his 
eyes  were  wide  open,  and  they  were  look 
ing  straight  at  the  Elder,  and,  deary  me, 
how  loud  those  eyes  spoke.  The  boy 
wanted  something,  and  with  all  his  might 
and  main  he  was  trying  to  ask  for  it. 
There  was  nothing  else  about  him  that 
showed  any  life,  only  those  begging,  pray 
ing  eyes.  I  did  think  for  a  second  that  I 
saw  his  arms  just  tremble  a  mite  as  if  he 
was  trying  hard  to  move  them  but 
I  aint  sure.  But  dear  me,  he  didn't  need 
to  move  them  nor  to  speak,  even  if 
his  poor  dumb  lips  could  have  done  it. 
We  knew  what  he  wanted;  what  other 
thing  had  he  ever  showed  he  wanted  in 
all  that  shut  up  little  life  of  his?  And  it 


White    Christopher 

was  Elder  Welcome  he  was  begging  for  it. 
I  don't  know  how  many  seconds  it  was,  it 
couldn't  have  been  many,  for  Charlotte  or 
Cyrus  or  me  or  all  of  us,  I'm  pretty  sure, 
would  have  been  ahead  of  the  Elder  and 
tried  to  satisfy  the  boy.  But  there  was 
time  for  such  a  look  of  trouble,  of  doubt 
ing,  of  love  and  wanting  to  help,  such  a 
half  scared  look  to  pass  over  the  Elder's 
hard  featured,  powerful,  old  face.  Then  he 
looked  up,  right  up  to  the  ceiling — through 
it,  I  guess — and  I  saw  his  lips  moving. 
Bless  the  man,  I'm  certain  sure  he  was 
asking  beforehand  to  be  forgiven  for  what 
he  was  going  to  do.  Then — he  streched 
out  his  two  arms.  He  did  it  sort  of  quick 
and  hurried,  pretty  awkward,  looking  round, 
half  ashamed  or  frightened  like,  to  see  if 
we  noticed,  but  he  did  it.  And  the  boy 
saw  it.  He  knew  what  it  was,  awkward 


White    Christopher 

and  only  half  finished  as  it  was,  and  the 
old  look  that  wasn't  quite  a  smile,  though 
his  mother  always  held  that  it  was,  came 
over  his  face.  And  it  stayed  there  till  we 
shut  it  away  two  days  afterwards  and  left 
him,  asleep  and  waiting. 
Yes,  that's  his  grave  that  you  were  asking 
about,  in  the  Streeter  Neighborhood  bury- 
ing-ground,  with  the  verse  Mr.  Foster 
picked  out  to  put  on  the  stone, 

a  £tantiarti  fearer  f  aintetf). 


[66] 


2.17. 


(1C  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FAOI ITV 


